Words by Missy Robbins and Talia Baiocchi. Photo by Kelly Puleio.

How could a sauce with just three ingredients (or is it four? or five?) inspire so much debate? Despite it being right there in the name, the origin of the dish is also disputed. The Romans often claim the dish as theirs, and not Amatrice’s, a town at the crossroads of Lazio, Abruzzo, and Umbria now more famous for its devastating earthquake in 2016 than for its namesake pasta. Some even go so far as to print the rebuke on menus, referring to the dish as la matriciana or all'amatriciana instead of all’amatriciana.

The most fervent debate, however, comes down to the use, or not, of onions and garlic. In Amatrice, the dish is unadorned: tomatoes, pecorino cheese, guanciale . . . maybe chile flakes. That’s it. But like most dishes that have become part of the Roman canon (carbonara, cacio e pepe) and have thus made their way around the globe, this one invites attempts at improvement. In the past, I was guilty of overcomplicating the dish myself.

Neither onions nor garlic make their way into my interpretation of the dish, despite the fact that the amatriciana I fell in love with leaned so heavily on the former. When I was cooking in Chicago and traveled to New York, my first stop was almost always for a bowl of Mark Ladner’s amatriciana. His version is feral and rustic, with pearlescent sheets of red onion the size of walnuts and thick, crispy pieces of guanciale. It’s a dish that has a tribe of devotees.

My version is more traditional, and not out of reverence. To me, the genius of amatriciana lies in the combination of tomato, pecorino, and guanciale (plus chile flakes, always). Note that the dish can take additional heat, so feel free to scale up your use of chile if you so desire.

Pasta: The Spring and Craft of Italy's Greatest Food is available now.